A Collection of Short Stories

From the Perspective of a Killer

    A resounding squelch resounded through the room. It resembled a muddy rubber boot stomping on a pile of mushy dirt. Of course, this sound came from none other than a fresh corpse. It was not immediately obvious to the victim that they would end up in this predicament. Then again, it wasn't obvious to any victim that they would end up hung up and butchered to death. However, this specific victim was special. She grew close to her (at the time) unknowing captor. It gave her a false sense of security when she uncovered the truth of her beloved. As in most cases, she resisted the temptation to report a possible killer and defaulted on supporting them. This only gave her killer an easier chance to silence her.

    I sat across an interrogator, expressionless and still. He glared at me with fury, waiting for an answer to any of his questions. The room was near silent, the only sound echoing from a small vent. I could almost hear the blinking of our eyes, a romantic thought. A smile crept up my face as I shifted my seating position to reflect control over the interrogation room. My eyes shifted to the mirror, but my body laid still. My gaze returned to the interrogator, who grew internally tempestuous by my lack of response. It was a game of breaking the ice. Only, the ice was thick and made of frozen blood. The detectives that worked on my case were not as incompentent as I expected, taking only a few years to capture me. Although, I did grow complacent about the game of cat and mouse, thinking that I had control over the playing field when that wasn't the case.

    The clock ticked. Each tick mirroring the beat of a drum and the slide of a string. It was a musical torrent for an instrument that told the time. This further annoyed the interrogator, as he knew that every second that passed, the farther he was away from cracking me. I overheard he only had about two hours to interrogate me, and I did not have to speak if I wished. They had no proof that could outright incriminate me, only a variety of vague connections that link me to several deaths. The poor soul was being played.

    It wasn't long after the prolonged silence that the interrogator pleaded for a pause in his time with me. He exited the room, leaving all but a cold cup of coffee that sat untouched. Behind me, the door opened and shut ferociously, climaxing with a sudden thud. It came to my mind that the man who'd be interrogating me was frustrated and wanted to relieve his frustrations through physical actions. I questioned how different he was from me: a man who relieved his urges through violence.

    The silence was broken when the faint indistinct rumbling of voices vibrated through the mirror. A deeper voice seemed to exercise disappointment with a weaker voice, that seemed shouty and whiny. I assumed the latter voice was the interrogator and the deeper voice was his chief. I closed my eyes, making out the dialogue.

    "You don't have much time with this suspect," the chief firmly stated, "If you do not get so much as a squeak from this suspect within the next hour, we're closing this case."

    "We can't close this case!" the interrogator pleaded.

    "We can!" the chief promptly boomed, "You've been chasing this guy for the past year already, and no one has died since then."

    "He's right there--we just need to get him to confess-"

    "No. I'm giving you one more hour. Otherwise, get the fuck off my back."

    I could hear the interrogator sigh. He opened the door and walked in front of me as I opened my eyes.

    "Hey, it's lunch time. Come back when you're ready to talk."

    I stood up and smiled before leaving the room.

    "DON'T YOU WALK OUT ON ME," she shrieked.

    "Just...leave me be," I responded.

    My grin devolved into a frown. Rosalia stood behind me, helpless and in tears. She knew where I was going. My apartment was nothing more than a bedroom to me, and walking out of it was merely leaving to get food in the kitchen. I could hear Rosalia's cries and weeps as I shut the door behind me. She could do nothing, instead, she witnessed the terrible things that occurred around her. She was afraid that if someone else knew, I would disappear from her life. A life without me was unimaginable. To Rosalia, I was an unattainable source of perfection. She did not believe for a second that I could be anything other than a sad cashier register at a local grocery store.